Chapter 2
Paige
My heart kicks against my ribs as I inhale and force my body to relax.
Ignoring the image burned into my mind—broad shoulders, the sculpted V of his torso, a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds or drop panties—I form a mental list of what I know.
Professor Ivan “Vanya” Orlov. Handsome past the point of reason. Charming and intelligent. His suit perfectly tailored, the watch a quiet flex. A well-rehearsed but easy smile.
A lingering coldness where he touched my fingers, and a darkness in those honey hazel eyes. As soon as he spoke, I couldn’t stop the shiver that crawled up my spine.
Ivan “Vanya” Orlov, an academic?
As likely as translating the Voynich Manuscript.
Then, what is he?
Dangerous.
Vanya—as he introduced himself—has the kind of charm that’s only surface-level deep, fluid and constantly shifting until it finds a gap to seep into.
Underneath the shimmering, hypnotic exterior, I caught that silent hum.
The kind you feel more than hear, like a mountain lion peering at you through the trees. You know in your bones, with one wrong move, you’re dead.
A predator in Brioni wool, with his nails trimmed to hide sharp claws.
He moves like a cougar, too, with lethal grace and soft steps. Even has similarly piercing eyes.
I glance down and realize he stole my red pen. While I sat frozen, stunned by the number of faded scars on his hands, fingers, and wrists, he swiped my writing utensil. I’ve had that pen for years.
Who does he think he is? Acting like he’s entitled to anything he wants, no matter how small.
Asshat.
I wonder if he acts that way in every part of his life or only in public.
Is he just as entitled in private, touching and claiming whatever he pleases…
What on earth am I thinking?
Who cares what he’s like anywhere else? The guy’s a smooth-talking jerk, and he’d better not let me see him here ever again.
A familiar shuffle breaks through my scattered thoughts.
Clarence, one of our patrons, arrives in his usual perfume of mothballs and pipe tobacco, his eyes huge behind his glasses, with Dr. Abernathy, my boss and the head of the library, on his heels.
“The latest Modern Sailor, Ms. Kisner? Is it in yet?” He asks the same question every Wednesday, though my answer never changes.
“Reference section. Third shelf. Right where it always is.” I point to where the magazines have lived for at least the past three years.
Clarence blinks, his lips twitching.
Regret sours the back of my throat. “Sorry, Clarence. Yes, of course, I can show—”
Dr. Abernathy interrupts me. “I’ll take him, Paige. Keep doing what you’re doing.” He raises a bushy eyebrow and then winks before guiding the other man away. “Right this way, Clarence.”
Guilt gnaws on my insides. It’s not Clarence’s fault “Vanya” stole my pen and my peace. That “researcher” flipped a switch that, before today, I believed disabled.
The switch that takes me from zero to eleven in 1.3 seconds.
The part of me better left buried. The part that once—
I’m fourteen, nearly fifteen, vacationing with my wealthy parents on a tropical island.
I’ve got a bottle hidden in my jacket, and I’m sneaking off to meet up with a local boy whose name I never bothered to learn.
We take shelter among the coconut palms from a sudden storm while drinking and making out.
Lightning strikes, and a nearby tree catches fire.
Gunshots ring out.
Someone screams.
The boy runs, leaving me behind, only to drop a few feet away. Dead before his bullet-riddled body hits the ground.
Instead of keeping herself hidden, my mom searches for me. She’s gunned down for her efforts. Through the fire, I find her, her arms outstretched as if she’s reaching out, her wide eyes searching, even in death.
“If you hadn’t been such a wild child, your mother would still be alive.” The last words Grandma ever said to me crawl over my skin like a thousand tiny spiders.
I try to shake them off, but the memories smear like oil on a mirror. That summer…that island… Those deaths still haunt me. Because danger, like a black hole, has always sucked me in.
With a single conversation, this predator—Ivan “Vanya” Orlov—has cut straight to my buried core. The bridled chaos struggles to slip loose, and I know exactly what type of trouble that can cause.
That’s why I’ll never let this Vanya character any closer.
I won’t allow my past to come back to haunt me.
Half an hour later, as I’m shelving books way back in the ancient history section, a heavy tome slams to the floor from the next aisle over.
I jump and nearly drop the treatise on ancient Mediterranean piracy.
Just gravity. That’s all.
Regardless, my heart sits in my throat for the rest of my shift, my fingers shaking whenever they’re empty.
It’s Vanya’s fault. He threw me off-balance.
The way he smiled at me, talked to me, touched me…
I’m not used to men noticing me like that. I haven’t been on a real date since college. Despite the popular “librarian” fantasies, most men aren’t actually lining up to take out a senior archivist. In reality, they think all library workers are boring or prudish or uptight.
As I adjust my sensible khaki skirt, wiping dust from the fabric before heading back to the main lobby, I can’t argue with their assumptions. I don’t exactly scream, Hot date, right here!
And yet…a dangerous heat flared in Vanya’s eyes when he spoke to me.
I’m not immune to charming, sexy men, but I’m not stupid either. He just wants to use me for his “research.”
Or is that a euphemism?
I don’t need that in my life. Not his attention or the thrill that came with it. I’ve got my books, the occasional dinner meeting with my boss, and my work.
I have everything I require.
Even if the memory of Vanya’s predatory smile causes me to doubt my certainty.
Five minutes to close, I usher out the last patron. Once their footsteps fade, silence settles over the space. Just like most weeknights, I’m alone as I lock up the building. The rest of my staff left in staggered groups, the last one fifteen minutes ago.
The way it should be.
I remind myself that I don’t need anyone, even at work. Though the words ring a little hollow tonight.
As I march down the stone steps to the parking lot, a weight settles between my shoulders. The hairs on the back of my neck lift.
I fumble for my keys, every fiber of my being on high alert.
A twig snaps, prompting me to spin around and peer into the woods.
No one’s there, though I swear the prickling sensation of eyes lingers on my back.
Or maybe I just can’t shake the feeling of Vanya’s sharp, hungry gaze tracking me.
The library perches on old, lonely farmland, with nothing but grass and dense forest out to the west. Sunset drags a red slash low on the horizon, and wind scatters leaves over the near-empty lot. In the distance, an owl hoots.
I scan the rolling field behind the library, scouring for anything that might explain my raised hackles.
A shape. Movement.
Vanya Orlov’s outline against the blackening sky?
Absurd. Surely he’s long gone.
Though my pulse still skips as I hurry through the lot.
As soon as the door of my reliable Toyota Camry shuts, I engage the lock with trembling hands.
I don’t even wait for the engine to warm up before I gun it. Gravel spits out behind me as I peel out, fishtailing before I gain control and speed away.
Vanya
My Bentley sticks out like a gold-plated thumb outside Paige’s bland, cookie-cutter apartment complex.
The building features duplexes with fake stucco exterior painted beige, as well as sidewalks stained with too many feet and not enough power washings.
Nothing new or flashy. A home designed to be invisible, just like its owner.
Even her car matches the walls. Nondescript, boring beige.
She doesn’t get out of the vehicle right away. Instead, she sits for a few minutes, motionless, shadows obscuring her face. She’s likely checking her mirrors one last time, or working up the nerve to venture into the cold, eerie night.
When she finally climbs out, her head whips both ways as she scans the block. The composure she had at the library has slipped.
She’s rattled.
Good.
I always enjoy toying with my prey.